


Perihelion

by nein



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5407130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nein/pseuds/nein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every life, Futakuchi Kenji remembers two names from the 21st Century. When he remembers, he tries to find them. And if he can't find them, he tries again.</p><p>(Reincarnation!AU into the future with soulmates and a dab of sci-fi)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perihelion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shuukei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shuukei/gifts).



> Prompt: Soulmates!AU with the Iron Wall trio (Futakuchi, Aone and Kamasaki)
> 
> Dear shuukei,
> 
> Merry merry Christmas! I'm 50% sure Santa approves of your behaviour this year and 101% sure you are deserving of this fic (not sure if this fic is deserving of you o3o). Thank you for challenging me with an ot3, and a rarepair too! I fell in love with Futakuchi when I reread some of the Datekou chapters so I hope this fic brightens your holidays like his side fringe brightened my week :D

 

 

 

There's a vision that strikes Futakuchi spontaneously, on certain days, in certain moments. It would flash by his consciousness like a speeding car, roaring in his mind’s ear and squeezing his heart to a pause. Sometimes he saw it, sometimes he heard it, and sometimes he felt it. Sometimes none of his senses were even minutely moved. Everytime however, he definitely, definitely experienced it, like a memory distilled through multiple recollections to some transcendent medium independent of sensory perception.

 

_A falling ball, an outstretched arm, the silence of a collective breath._

 

It is not a memory (he tells himself, as he waits for the next train). Despite its clarity, he knows he is too young to be playing such sports, and no name is associated with the ball before his fingers, no place with the image of a gymnasium so gargantuan.

 

He's too young to understand the painful stab in his lungs (he will learn, and have learnt, that it is called 'regret') and when he looks down, he’s unsure of how to label the surprise that arises when he does not see snow creeping across his chest. He has an urge to jump. He wants to stretch his hands towards the sky. Lock his tendons to be immovable.

 

His mother is to his left and the empty expanse of the platform is too his right. He is unsure why he expects otherwise.

 

There’s a middle school student standing on the opposite platform, spinning a basketball in his large hands. Futakuchi watches its rotation, eyes focusing and defocusing at the blurring lines, the near-quiet sound of fingertips gripping and releasing, gripping and releasing.

 

Something tugs in the corner of his mind, as if the movement of the ball unravels a string tied to a foreign darkness which he cannot identify.

 

Like the gradual growth of a grain of sand to a heap, he can not pinpoint the exact moment he knows. Only that, right now, a blink away from a certain past, his mind has gained a new weight and his soul, a new understanding.

 

 _This is a memory_.

 

Soundlessly, he mouths four words, two names. He looks up at his mother, who is looking beyond him (perhaps at the blossoming trees behind the tracks, or at the far distance where perspective shrinks even the largest of things). She will have another child in two years, this, he knows.

 

At the faint rumble of the incoming train, the teenager perks up. He is too far away and the train is too close.

 

Futakuchi Kenji is 5 years old when he falls off Platform 2 at Nigatake Station. His picture makes it to the 3rd page of a local newspaper, barely the size of an elementary student's eraser. The prefectural council erects safety gates during the next winter.

 

 

==============================

==============================

**Perihelion**

_(noun) the point in the orbit of a planet or comet at which it is nearest to the sun._

 

==============================

**2087**

==============================

“It’s 6 million or nothing. American dollars.” Futakuchi snaps into his phone, weaving through the crowd. It’s lunch hour and the quantity of people bustling through this intersection is like a tidal wave sweeping him in directions he does not want to go. “Send them the accounts, show them how the money adds up, we’ve already-”

He frowns, listening to the squabble on the other end, “I know, I know. They don’t deserve more.”

The traffic light is red. Across the road, another businessman is also caught up in some cellular conversation, face stern as a single finger taps on the metal casing of his mobile. Futakuchi squints at him. He then switches his phone to his shoulder in order to rummage through his pockets for his business card. He always had a thing for blondes.

When the light turns green, they walk towards each other and with every step, Futakuchi feels his heart grow warmer. He angles himself, hand ready to slip card into pocket.

“Futakuchi? Are you listening?

“Ah? Yes, yes,” his attention shifts. Someone cuts in front of him, a woman suddenly changes directions, two students laugh loudly. He blinks.

They pass each other and for a moment, time pauses. Like lightning, the other man’s presence strikes him as familiar, a prompt to remember something forgotten. As if feeling the weight of being watched, the blonde begins to turn around.

Futakuchi trips and flashes his eyes forward, righting himself. When he glances back, there is a new crowd waiting at the traffic lights.

He puts the card back into his pocket.

==============================

****

==============================

He realises on a Friday afternoon after calculating the exact possibility of middle-class Japanese salarymen developing stomach ulcers. He has been experiencing some chest pain recently and a self-diagnosis rendered nothing significant to report to the doctors and a sufficient justification to be distracted from work. He has already changed the intern’s screensaver to a video of the other intern’s mum and taped a post-it to the bottom of their mouse. He’s watching the clock thinking of worse things to get paid for when he decides to google his own name.

He does not expect to find an article from 2015 detailing notable contestants in high school volleyball.

He does not expect to see a picture of his own face (ugh the quality) amidst a lengthy article singed with other names.

 ****_An article from 2015._

He does not recognise the other faces, he does not recognise the location of the picture, he has no memory of playing volleyball.

 ****_2015._

3 hours later, he sits back and deletes his search history. If a curious administrator from I.T. decided to retrieve it, they would find this:

 

 

 

 

 

> Futakuchi Kenji
> 
> Futakuchi Kenji; Date: 1999 - 2049
> 
> 2049 M1 Motorway Accident
> 
> Doppleganger
> 
> Strangest Coincidences
> 
> Reddit Glitch in the Matrix
> 
> Reincarnation
> 
> Chest Pain
> 
> Symptoms of Heart Disease
> 
> Acute Respiratory Inflammation
> 
> BVJDKLVNCXKL<AHXBAZAA!!AA#
> 
> Symptoms of Reincarnation??
> 
> Symptoms of having soulmates
> 
> Futakuchi Kenji, Datekou
> 
> Miyagi Spring High Volleyball Tournament 2015
> 
> Iron Wall
> 
> Kamasaki Yasushi
> 
> Aone Takanobu
> 
> Midoriyama Cemetery Directions
> 
>  

==============================

==============================

 

_Aone Takanobu_

__

_Son of Aone Takasuke and Watanabe Kiko._

__

_13th of August 1999 - 7th of May 2087_

He stares and stares at the name as something floods through his veins. The coldness in his chest remains and he does not wonder at its existence. He feels the presence of a falling ball, (not) waiting to be caught. There’s an urge to jump, stretch his limbs but instead, he clenches his fingers into fists as he faces the grave.

In front of it, is a fresh set of flowers and a volleyball.

Staring at the volleyball, he repeats to himself two names.

 

Aone Takanobu and Kamasaki Yasuhi.

 

He will find them.

 

(Although he does find Kamasaki's grave, he does not try to locate his own.)

 

==============================

==============================

 

Sometimes he is born with the feeling of summer tingling through his veins. He would live his childhood happily, nodding when his mother coaxes him to make friends and smiling when he attends birthday parties in foreign cities (the spaces between people have decreased with hypersonic trains). He looks around him with wonder and wide, wide eyes.

“He sure loves to travel,” someone whispers.

His mum nods and smiles softly, “but for some reason, he never visits the same place twice.”

==============================

==============================

 

For some reason, always, the warmth fades. Once, he was seventeen, applying for colleges he would never attend. Another time he was fourty-three, with twenty passports in his cupboard all stamped to the brim with foreign characters. There was a stress ball on his desk, bright yellow as if to induce a smile with its saturation. He rolled it in his hand, watching it spin. The lines blurred and faded as his eyes unfocused and his mind remembered. Two names. Memories from the 21st Century.

He never lives long after cold spreads throughout his chest. Accidents happen to good people all the time.

 

==============================

**2397**

==============================

On a train pulling into Nigitake Station, a young boy watches a spinning basketball and realises that the coldness inside him means _not this time._

==============================

**2434**

==============================

 

His heart is okay this life, a little lighter, perhaps warmer. He rolls marbles between his fingers every morning, remembering names, recalling memories.

He reads the news, eyes flashing at familiar names ( _Ushijima Wakatoshi - first man to Neptune_ ), and tries to restrain himself from downloading the latest virtual world (Final Fantasy 7 at 82% reality immersion, with chocobos) in favour of glancing at every face he comes across. For thirty years he’s seen no one familiar except for Oikawa dancing in an advertisement for longevity creams.

“Dr. Futakuchi?”

He puts down the syringe on his tray and switches his mind to communication mode, “Yes?”

“We are now sending you the details for today’s appointment,” communicates the hospital’s administrator.

Within a second, he knows the patient’s height, weight, and all of their medical history. The previous doctor (a Dr. Takeda) already made notes on the dosage. Some details are missing.

“Don’t we have a name or a picture?”

“It’s a state inmate, identity is not important.”

“Oh, an execution. I thought we only do euthanasias.” He triple checks all the labels, running through the names, concentrations and p.H levels with the computer.

“There’s a girl here who needs a pancreas. You know how difficult it is to get one fresh.”

“Yes ma’am.” he laughs. Money probably jumped between accounts before this. Not his business.

He says hello to the suited state witnesses and a fidgeting police officer standing behind the glass wall. They watch as he closes his eyes, brushing is mind over the files again before disconnecting from the Ethernet.

He’s in a good mood. The operation room is stark bare except for a bed. The patient is already in an induced coma. As according to protocol, their face is hidden behind a curtain.

The procedure is standard and simple, a needle to the thigh followed by a cardiac arrest within 3 minutes.

His heart heats up but its pace remains steady, solid, and perhaps even soothing. In a state of strange tranquility, he disinfects the area and prepares the needle.

The second his needle pierces skin, his heart stops.

Lethargically, as if in a dream, he controls his thumb to push down, compelling the liquid inside (Vecuronium bromide, 20 milligrams, 0.00104 moles per litre, he repeats to himself).

He hears the pulse of the patient roaring in his ears, feels their breaths shifting the air around him, sees the small hairs ghosting their skin. He feels the careful stares of the witnesses behind him and even the electricity that powers the machines in the room. Something is falling, falling, spinning downwards towards the floor.

His heart _throbs_ , throwing itself against his chest and all of a sudden, the warmth in his chest fades, cooling to a chill that rings his ears with familiarity. There’s an urge to hold the hand resting on the table, as if doing so would welcome comfort.

_What is happening?_

Under his fingers, the patient’s pulse fades to stillness.

His eyes flick to his watch, “Time of death 16:23.” Using his stethoscope, he checks for a heartbeat, hands clammy on the cool metal. Vaguely, he registers the beep of the bedside machine confirming the results of a brain scan.

"Death verified, approval for dissection.” His voice sounds like an echo from beyond his body. His heart feels emptied, hollow, frozen.

A clipboard is thrust on him the second he steps out, “Please sign here,” a man says, pointing at a line next to ‘Authorising Physician.”

His eyes drift to the top of the page.

 

_Execution of:_

 

_Inmate No. 547101342_

 

_Name: Aone Takanobu_

 

==============================

 

==============================

 

In one life, he works as a printer printing perfect, flaw-free genes with long telomeres and clear transparent organs ready to absorb blood from their designated patient. Sometimes he gets orders for lungs, sometimes a heart, many times for a pancreas. The most fragile, irreplaceable organ. It’s a pity humanity only learnt to replicate it last decade.

 

==============================

 

==============================

 

His tactics are evolving. This life he’s an idol, singing to millions and millions from Mercury to Pluto.

Fans crowd him at the airport, after concerts, on the street and he smiles into every single camera ( _Yes, yes, post it online, spread it around, there’s no such thing as bad publicity._ )

He opens every single fanmail, eyes skipping to the bottom of the page before deleting dozens, hundreds every hour. Once a month, he googles two names.

(When he was 6, he did the customary search and discovered that an Aone Tananobu and Kamasaki Yasushi was part of the SpaceTime patrol team who intercepted an asteroid terrorism plot 40 years prior to his birth. They saved a colony on Deimos and received honours from the United Nations for outstanding service to the Galaxy.

Futakuchi thought _this is some Sailor Moon shit,_ and then, _fucking traitors._

He then decided to save his mum some grief and actually grow up this time. Perhaps he should try to become someone impressive.

Back then, he might’ve felt a pang of loneliness.)

 

==============================

 

==============================

 

“Well fucking boo hoo,” Kamasaki snarls lifetimes later, hologram flickering, “Excuse us for having useful lives Mr. Pop Idol.” His long arm stretch outwards along the billiard stick, wrist adjusting the angle carefully before jerking it forwards to send the cue ball spinning across the transparent surface.

“Ugh,” Futakuchi rolls his eyes, “That was one time. I was trying to get your attention.”

“You could’ve just said, ‘senpai please notice me’.”

“In your dreams Kamasaki,” Futakuchi squints at the new arrangement, eyes flicking between red and yellow.

“It’s Kamasaki _-sempai_.”

Futakuchi refuses to reply, instead, he leans on the hovering table, sinking the red ball smoothly.

Kamasaki sighs, “I’ll reach the AstroGate in 10. Replies will take a while since they don’t have one of those instant things at Alpha Centauri yet..”

“Quantum receiver. Yeah I know.” Futakuchi moves to a new angle, eyes fixed upon the game. “Takes a year with good old EMR boosted from a midway satellite.” He sounds absolutely deadpan.

“Are you a scientist now?” Kamasaki snorts, sinking a blue billiard.

“No, just educated.”

“Fuck you.”

They continue to play in silence, sinking balls, missing some, drinking in the company of a found friend. Outside, space is a curtain of stars each glittering with lonely brightness.

Kamasaki stops mid-play, and Futakuchi feels the gaze shift to him. He focuses on the 8 ball, watching it slowly spinning into place.

“Kenji.”

He does not move.

“I’m sorry.”

Futakuchi does not look up. His cue stick is off angle and he misses the 8 ball.

“Aone’s looking for you too. We’re all looking for each other.” Kamasaki continues, swiftly sinking the 8 ball on his turn. The signal is fading.

“Says the one going to another galaxy.”

There’s a snort and suddenly, Futakuchi is enveloped in a hug. There is a chest pressed to his back and arms draped across his shoulders, spreading a new warmth and providing a new pressure. It’s only a projection but it feels intimately real and Futakuchi resists the urge to cling on.

“I’m sorry,” Kamasaki breathes out. It flows against his neck like wind blowing in dust from foreign places. It carried the weight of something unspoken, a hope honed by desperation.

Futakuchi leans back into the embrace, feeling the slow waning of Kamasaki’s connection as the distance between them stretches and lengthens. Together, they looked out at the universe, observing planets and stars from a different perspective, each anchored to the dimensions by space and time.

 _I’m going to miss you_ , he thinks. “A pity we never tried cyber sex,” he says instead.

Kamasaki’s hologram flickers out, but not before Futakuchi is hit by a blown-up, 3D, middle finger emoji.

Futakuchi laughs.

He leaves the emoji rotating in the lounge room as he types out a message. When he presses send, he imagines it shooting through the darkness, a lonely signal flying for a year towards a distant star.

 

_See you later._

 

==============================

**2566**

==============================

 

By the 26th Century, entire cities have been uploaded onto the Internet for electronic tourism. As a public detective, Senior Constable Futakuchi has unlimited access to all these, as well as 3D surveillance data from the Archives.

In between tracking Yakuza associates, he finds Aone walking through the glass tunnels of Tokyo-3 in 2470 and follows him until he hits the edge of public space.

 

[Error 607, this quad-ordinate is not archived. Please turn around]

 

He finds and rewinds and relives Thursday mornings between 2469 and 2472 when Aone would exit the Pacific Terminal, rise 30 levels through the GeoFront and cut across New Shibuya. His face is the same as always but a projection cannot replicate the presence Futakuchi dreams of, the aura that radiates and delivers the most steadfast assurance. Even so, Futakuchi follows, skips around, walks beside the Aone that cannot see him until the day he does not appear afterwards.

 _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry._ He says on the final day, to a ghost that cannot hear him.

He revisits Daketou before it was demolished in 2397. The gymnasium flickers with memories bubbling beneath his consciousness, waiting to resurface. The office building he used to work in has been renovated with Smart Glass on all four walls, absorbing sunlight and playing advertisements on a loop all day.

 

In the autumn of 2465, someone places flowers and a volleyball at Nigitake Station.

 

==============================

  
==============================

In every single life, there is the memory of a falling ball, an outstretched arm, the silence of a crowd in anticipation. The ball never touches the ground, but Futakuchi is falling, falling, always reaching out to catch it.

 

==============================

**2701**

==============================

 

Futakuchi’s new office is great. The anti-meteor force field is near invisible, offering a great view of the slow rotation of Neptune as well as the occasional moon. The induced gravity is a comfortable 0.7 g, not as burdensome as Earth’s but enough to provide a satisfactory thump as he throws himself onto a nearby chair. It moulds instantly to his back to provide support and minimise muscle strain.

This time, his heart is warm like the ocean at noon. There’s a tide of hope that washes in and out with every breath he takes. With this position as head geneticist, he has access to top-secret databases, including the details of the most recent system census. He’s close, they’re close. 

He pauses, and then in a single breath he types out the name that dances and dwells in his consciousness -

[No results found for ‘Aone Takanobu’]

Something within him drops, falling like lead through a cloud. Falling, falling, unable to be caught.

Not one of the 45 billion people spanning ages - 0.2 to 203 is named after a boy from the 21st Century. He’s not sure if the odds are extreme or if fate started playing with rules. He’s about to type another name when new text flashes across the screen.

 

[May we suggest ‘Aone Takasuke’]

 

He freezes. 

That is the name of-

 

Ideas shift and at the same time his thoughts yell _No, no, no no,_ his memories release seven hundred years of loneliness, lifetimes of searching, waiting, trying to live with an empty heart and so his hands are typing, typing, pressing enter -

 

[1 Match found for ‘Watanabe Kiko’]

 

Kenji stares.

 

She spends her days on a spaceship analysing exo-meteorology for an interstellar mining company. He lives on a floating city around Venus as a hydroponic farmer.

They can never meet. Fall in love, start a family. 

But there’s a sample of both their genes here, right now, with him. The lab droid could retrieve it in seconds…..

All he needs to do is send a recommendation to the Commission on Genetic Optimisation with an objectively worded comment about the likelihood of a child with superior height, muscle mass density and metabolism. (Nothing about the desire to win, the silent respect in his eyes, or the weakness for Sunday morning cuddles) They might even ask him to suggest a name.

Just a few clicks, some typing.

But then Aone would grow up in a controlled, observable environment before being conscripted into either the military or space exploration, bound into life-long service.

Futakuchi could still see him, he’s paid visits to various military satellites and some of the imperial guard are stationed on civilian satellites. _They would be alive at the same time_.

But then Aone might be tested on, sent to the far reaches of the known universe, fated for loneliness by decisions made for the advancement of humanity.

An exhalation shudders out of his mouth as he slumps back in his seat, heart racing and eyes wide. His chest is heavy with promise, possibility and prayer.

 

_A falling ball, an outstretched arm-_

 

It’s 2701 and Futakuchi Kenji turns the screen off.

 

(Years, decades before, he had searched all their names in all the dimensions of the cyberspace. There are echoes of his name in bibliographies of medical papers and in statistics comparing child mortality rates across centuries. There’s no longer a sign of a High School volleyball team from the 21st Century.

 And Aone, Aone was a man of few words but Futakuchi has always found comfort in his presence not in his conversation. Despite centuries of silence. Futakuchi finds himself smiling at traces of Aone in history. _Japan wins FIVB World Cup 2382, Presidential Assassination Foiled, Dodgeball in Zero Gravity, Pilot Breaks Light Barrier-_

As for Kamasaki, Futakuchi later tracks him down to Ganymede where scientists have perfected CryoSleep. Futakuchi visited him once (Neptune to Jupiter takes a day if the orbits line up) and briefly considered switching fields to stare at his comatose, frozen face everyday. But Futakuchi’s already a Ph.D and 5 research papers deep in genetics and furthermore, throwing insults isn’t as fun when the recipient is unconscious.

 _L_ ifespans have increased to over 250 years now, and if the scientific grapevine is to be trusted, breaking 300 is possible within the next decade. The gigantic market for organic serums and cyborg enhancements also shows no sign of slowing down.

Futakuchi could wait. He never lived past 50 anyway.)

 

==============================

**2979**

==============================

 

By the time Kamasaki has woken up, Futakuchi is 311 years old and recently auctioned off a copy of his mind to Tesla InterCO Pty Ltd. He also won the court case for his Gundams to be named, well, Gundams (not Evangelions or Knightmares or Jaegers, thank you very much). As a result, his retirement funds are insane so he considers investing some in the anti-matter market (gold was so last millennium) and spending the rest on a nice cruise ship orbiting the Solar System, waiting for Aone to be reborn.

Life is good until an Interstellar War breaks out and a stray InterPlanetary missile hits the Cryonics Research Base on Ganymede.

He’s playing billiards again when his chest instantly freezes like an arctic tundra. The news come 40 minutes later, flashing across the sky of Neptune in large print.

After donating his life savings to several orphanages, he looks at the stars and stares down their glittering flickering points in the expansive void of space.

“Fuck you,” he says.

 

==============================

**3006**

==============================

Futakuchi Kenji is a war orphan, parents killed when the Geo-Calibration system of their spaceship was hacked. They flew into an asteroid while he was at school. He was immediately relocated.

Warmth spreads across his heart and through his veins when he arrives at the (surprisingly well-off) orphanage on Venus, far away from the conflict occurring in the outer orbits. In the peripheral of his mind, something flashes by, like a speeding spaceship or the roar of a force field, throwing the air out of his lungs and squeezing his heart to stagnancy.

The first few days are a blur. He is given clothes and taught how to put on a space suit in 2 minutes if there was an emergency evacuation. A bespeckled woman shows them how to navigate through the zero-gravity tunnels and conserve oxygen by slowing their heart rate. A boy with poofy brown hair grins and shows off his cybernetic leg.

During the second week, another boy with a stern frown and no eyebrows walks up to him. He is spinning a volleyball between his fingers and for a moment, Futakuchi just watches its rotation, watching the blurring lines and the grip of his stiff fingers against the sphere.

In his mind, something shifts, as if the movement of the ball unraveled a string knotted to the recesses of his memory,

The next moment has him rushing forward, arms wide open and body thrown against the other child.

His shout is loud enough to notify the supervising android, but he doesn’t care as his heart is flooded with an ocean of emotions.

“Aone, Aone, Aone.” He repeats into a shoulder, fingers clutching tightly, “I’ve found you.”

 

==============================

**3015**

==============================

 

Aone does not question when he enrolls them both into the Astral Defence force after graduating middle school. The Interstellar War is truly developing into something heinous with entire moons being obliterated into dust with the new anti-matter grenades. Most of the orphans left on the quickest space shuttle to agricultural or academic colonies in the Inner Rings, leaving only a handful behind to wander outwards.

When they step off the spaceship into a terminal bustling with battle drones and vibrating machines, Futakuchi feels his heart boiling to the brim with a fervour he has not felt in a thousand years. Silently but surely, Aone strides by his side, a presence firm and immovable. He relished it.

Halfway into their training, he overhears a whispers of a division known for their impeccable deflection of interplanetary missiles and defensive maneuvers against the fastest of space ships. A name trails through the ranks. 

 

_The Iron Wall._

 

Futakuchi sucks in a breath.

 

_A falling ball, an outstretched arm. The silence of an audience in wait of victory._

 

Their promotion forms are neatly completed and filed when they finish their year of training. Both of them are accepted into their first preference of division. They transfer within 2 days.

 

_His hand is reaching, reaching out._

  

Waiting for them the moment they step off the transporter is a man with bleached hair and dark eyebrows. Slowly, he raises his middle finger.

 

“Urgh,” Futakuchi rolls his eyes but his mouth is stretched into a grin, “it’s you.”

 

Without a word, Aone pulls them all in a bone-crushing hug.

 

 

 

 _This is our Perihelion_.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This work was written as part of the Haikyuu Winter Holidays Exchange of 2015! It was such a rewarding experience; I was challenged to write something I never tried before and received immense encouragement and support at the end of the journey. ;A;
> 
> I really encourage everyone to have a browse through the collection because there are many brilliant ones in there. And! Don’t miss out on some gems just because you don’t know the character or never tried the pairing, trust me, sometimes rarepairs have the best works. My favourites (out of the few I read) include:
> 
> \+ [Off-Camera](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hqwinterhols_2015/works/5322482)  
> \+ [When Life Happens Loudly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5446745)  
> \+ [Tales from the Iron Wall: Summertime Special](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hqwinterhols_2015/works/5518619)  
> \+ [All the World's A Stage](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hqwinterhols_2015/works/5403803)
> 
> Credits:  
> \+ manga caps are taken from Chapter 47, from Casanova Scans  
> \+ may I humbly acknowledge the influence of [ 25 Lives](http://s2b2.livejournal.com/142934.html) by lalage in my approach to writing reincarnation fic. (please click it)  
> \+ sheelia for her snarky comments which are somehow motivating  
> \+ organisers of the Haikyuu Winter Holidays Exchange, thank you for your hard work. Without you guys, I would not be writing these holidays //bows
> 
> [09/01/2016]  
> I did the [](http://neineinsteins.tumblr.com/post/136940503550/fic-commentary-meme-i-ii>Fic%20Commentary%20Meme</a>%20on%20the%20inmate%20scene%20and%20the%20emoji%20scene%20:D)


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